


i want the world in my hands

by frougge



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Established Relationship, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, robb is a good boyfriend bless him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-13
Updated: 2018-06-13
Packaged: 2019-05-21 19:52:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14921798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frougge/pseuds/frougge
Summary: From the top of the cliff, Theon can hear the waves crash against the sharp edges of the rocks, can feel the wind comb through his hair, can smell the salt of the sea on his lip. Each collision of the water and the rocks echoes through his body, making him shake nearly uncontrollably so.He wonders, sometimes, what it would feel like to jump.





	i want the world in my hands

**Author's Note:**

> full disclosure: this is emo, theon's in a bad place for most of this and does contemplate suicide, there's mentions of homophobia, character death and references to child abuse
> 
> anyway hope you enjoy !

From the top of the cliff, Theon can hear the waves crash against the sharp edges of the rocks, can feel the wind comb through his hair, can smell the salt of the sea on his lip. Each collision of the water and the rocks echoes through his body, making him shake nearly uncontrollably so.

He wonders, sometimes, what it would feel like to jump.

What it would feel like to fall through the air, so carelessly, so _freely_ , before colliding with the cold water. Supposedly, the impact was rough and maybe that would feel even better; maybe the sound of skin tearing, of bones breaking lost among the rhythm of the sea would be strangely soothing.

He itches closer to the edge, toes at it unsurely, feeling a dangerous thrill rush through his body. He’s stood here many times before, when his brothers wouldn’t stop their name-calling, when his father got drunk yet again, when his mother couldn’t remember his name or even recognize him. His thoughts are always the same - and maybe, this time, he could try to jump.

There’s a strange feeling of comfort that comes from this that nothing else provides him, though it’s lost as soon as he hears footsteps and feels someone take his hand, softly, carefully, as if they are afraid Theon is going to break.

And maybe he is.

“Feeling a bit better?”

“Yeah,” Theon says, unable to tell if he’s lying as he takes one final look at the sea before backing away from the edge, his finger curling around his boyfriend’s hand. “Thanks.”

Robb just smiles in return - soft, kind, a little bit worried, the kind of smile that made Theon fall in love with him, that makes Theon fall in love with him all over again each day, that keeps Theon from taking one more step and letting the sea consume him.

They make their way back to the hotel room in silence; Asha had offered them a place to stay in the almost-castle that Theon spent the first nine years of his life in, but he had declined. He never felt well in it, not a decade ago and certainly not now. The only reason he’s back on the Islands, after all, isn’t a pleasant one, and he’d rather not think about it.

He knows he has to grieve - knows he should - but all he could feel is numbness, from his skin to deep inside his bones. Robb doesn’t push him to talk about it, though Theon can feel his eyes search his face and knows that he wants him to talk about it. Mention it, maybe, at least, but Theon does his best at skirting away from the topic.

Still, Robb’s kind enough to have accompanied him to the Islands, and that’s more than Theon can ask for.

Their hotel room isn’t big and it’s normal, clean, and maybe Theon’s a bit surprised, considering the look the woman at the desk sent him and Robb when they checked in. He’d figured the Islands still weren’t very accepting, but that doesn’t mean the look didn’t hurt anyway. It’s not like he needs validation from strangers but - he had grown up thinking that just because of who he loved, he was worse. That it made him a despicable creature, one undeserving of love.

It had taken him a long time - and Robb - to get over it, to accept that thought that was what he’d been taught, it wasn’t the truth.

When incidents like these happen, it comes swimming back to him, in pieces, in fragments. Sometimes full on, and those days are the worst; those days, he can barely stand physical contact with Robb, can barely stand doing anything at all.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Robb asks, his voice soft and barely there as if anything above a whisper could break Theon in half. He’s been careful, speaking little and barely touching Theon, save for hand holding, and maybe Theon wishes that he wouldn’t be so patient with him. That he’d sigh, that he’d groan each time Theon would shake his head no, each time Theon would go out to the balcony for a smoke, despite quitting years ago.

“No,” Theon says, “not now.”

_Not ever_ , he thinks.

“Okay,” Robb says, and Theon tries to think of a time when conversation was this strained between them. He supposes it’s his fault, really, and tries not to feel too bad about it. Robb doesn’t say anything else, but instead moves towards Theon, who had sat down on the bed as soon as they came in. He cradles his face in his hands, soft and kind and just _so_ Robb, and Theon feels horrible for being unable to process anything, for being disappointing and letting him down yet another time.

Theon reaches out with his hands, placing them on Robb’s hips, because that’s what he’s supposed to do, isn’t it? Robb stares at him, for a moment, as he holds his face before he lightly presses a kiss to Theon’s forehead. “I love you.”

It’s not the first time he’s told him this - and it’s not like Theon hasn’t told him that either, but instead of responding, all Theon can do is duck his head and stare at the ground. He can’t seem to form words or speak, his tongue feeling like lead in his mouth.

Instead, he squeezes Robb’s side and hopes that gets the message across.

That same night, when they’re in bed, Theon can’t fall asleep for a long time. He swears he can hear the sea from outside their window and if he closes his eyes for just a moment, all he can think about is the sea swallowing him whole, his body crashing to the bottom, so peacefully, more peaceful than he’s ever been.

But then he turns on his side and there’s Robb - keeping his distance, when usually they’re so tangled up in their sleep it’s hard to tell them apart. There’s Robb, and he mentally steps off the edge again.

He knows, somewhere, deep inside his mind, that he gets closed off when things like this happen. That he puts up fences with barbed wire that have been taken down long ago, that soon a barricade of sharp comments and forced sneers will be up, and it’ll take days, weeks - maybe months - to break it down, but. There’s some comfort in becoming barely like himself, in cutting off contact with everyone.

He hears Robb, in the mornings, call his parents and his siblings, and despite the fact that he’s close to them as well, he can’t bring himself to utter a word into the phone.

“He’s grieving,” Robb says, quietly into the phone when he thinks Theon’s still sleeping, probably. “Just - give him time,” he pauses, and Theon wonders who he’s talking to - Rickon, maybe, who always favored him over Robb. “I’ll tell him, yeah.”

He hears Robb say his goodbyes and hang up, and he turns away before Robb can see he’s awake. Theon doesn’t feel like talking - has exchanged less than twenty words with Robb for the past week - and he doubts he’ll feel like talking anytime soon.

The only solace that he gets is that Asha’s even more emotionally constipated than Theon - always was - so she doesn’t try to talk with him about it, either. They meet to prepare for what’s going down tomorrow, to make arrangements, and Theon really doesn’t want to go.

(Robb had offered to come, though Theon had told him that he needed to do this alone, which was true. To some extent.

He wondered, then, if Robb was remembering how it was for them when Eddard Stark died - was _killed_ \- but this is different. Or, at least, that’s what Theon thinks.)

“The few that are coming are going to be staying here, with me,” Asha says, off-handedly motioning around her. They’re camped out in the grandiose dining room, only because the long table allows them to spread out all the papers and documents they have on it. “You know, you can move in here, too. I don’t mind.”

“It’s not that,” Theon says, although it kind of is, isn’t it? He taps his fingers on the wood as he stalls with his answer. He’s never been particularly close to Asha, but the fact that she’d sometimes protect him from his father and brothers makes him a mixture of bitter and touched. He despises the fact that he even had to be _protected_ , that he wasn’t enough on his own, but that’s in the past.

(Maybe Robb was right, the few times he suggested that it might be good for Theon to talk to someone about his never-ending list of issues and traumas.)

“Then what is it?” Asha presses, uncharacteristically of her, but her eyes are hard and her mind is set, and he knows she’s not going to let him off until he gives her a satisfying answer. “You can talk to me, you know.”

“Right,” he says, trying to sound not too resentful. They’ve never had a real heart-to-heart - probably because neither of them actually knows how to communicate. He’s barely able to spill his heart out to Rob, who he spends most of his time with, anyway, and he’s pretty damn sure that Asha doesn’t talk with anyone about anything. “It’s just - it doesn’t feel right bringing Robb here, so I’d rather just stay in the hotel for a few days.”

Asha looks at him - eyes his expression carefully - before nodding, “okay. Just - know you’re welcome here, okay? This is your home, too.”

And it’s not, it’s really, _truly_ not. Not when he remembers being sent away from this very table, not being given food because he was being _too girly_ or because he wasn’t _man enough_ to catch a fish when they went out boating. Not when he remembers in the living room, when his father would put out his cigarette on his inner forearm or when he would use the remains of a beer bottle on him because he wasn’t enough, again and again.

Not when if he were to come back here with Robb when his father was still alive, his father would disinherit him, throw him out without a second glance.

Try to kill him, probably.

“Right,” he just says again instead of spilling out all his regrets and problems. “Let’s just get this over with.”

There’s really not much to do - there’s a grand total of five people that are coming and, according to Asha, for over half of them, it’s just a “political move.” He knows she’s right, but it all just feels so wrong.

As he’s about to leave - had already messaged Robb to meet him down by the docks, Asha stops him, her hand on his forearm. “She wasn’t mad at you, you know.” He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say to that - doesn’t want the tears he’s holding back to spill, because even though he’s supposed to look past his father’s and brothers’ incessant comments, some have ingrained themselves into his skin, as deep as the scars and the ink he paid for as soon as he turned eighteen. “she understood.”

“I should have visited her,” he manages to choke out, finally, and Asha’s eyes soften just a bit. This is the most he has said on the matter and, now that he’s opened the gates, it’s all going to flood out. “She always asked for me - expecting a kid, maybe, yeah, but I should have visited her when I got the chance. I shouldn’t have left her here - “

“You didn’t go voluntarily,” Asha reminds him, and that in itself burns a bit. He remembers how, despite his father being a misogynistic piece of shit, he still felt better giving away his youngest son who he thought was nothing but a disappointment. He remembers how Asha didn’t stand up for him when she had the chance. “And, even if you had stayed - what good would it have done you?”

“I should have stayed,” he maintains, “I shouldn’t have been taken away. The Islands, they’re my - “

“ - they’re not,” Asha says, swallows as she considers her next words, and Theon curls his hands into fists, his nails pressing firmly into his palms. “You never fit in here, okay? And, look. This isn’t something I’d hold against you, but if father found out that - you and Robb…” she trails off and the end of her sentence hangs heavy in the air between them. “It wasn’t right that you were taken away from here, not on your own account, but you were able to grown into yourself, okay?Father would have expected you to be like Maron, or Rodrik, and that’s just -not you.”

It stings then, so much that he thinks he draws blood. He’d _wanted_ to be like Maron and Rodrik when he was first taken away,despite the fact that they’d been nothing but rude to him. He wanted to grow up to be like them, hard, rude, thought that maybe, _maybe,_ then his father would accept him.

Maybe he’d gain his approval.

“Just, know that she loved you,” Asha says, letting go off his hand. “She asked for you, yes, but she loved you. She wasn’t mad.”

“I - I have to go,” he says, already turning on his heel.

“Theon,” he hears Asha call, but he’s already letting the doors close behind him. He can’t stand being there - listening to her talk about _her_ like that.

The docks aren’t packed when he makes his way there - on foot, because he needs some fresh air after meeting with Asha. It hadn’t been a good idea - or maybe it was the visit to his childhood home that caused the gates to open and every insult, every punishment, every injury to run over him, leaving harsh imprints in his skin that he knows will stay there for the next couple of days. He can hear his father’s voice booming in his ears - low, making the ground shake underneath his feet.

But then he can see Robb, sitting on the docks, his feet dangling just above the water as if he were a young boy. He’s skipping rocks on the water, too - or trying to, at least - and as Theon gets closer, he spies a grave expression on his face.

“Sorry I made you wait so long,” he says, in lieu of a greeting, lowering himself slowly to join Robb by the docks. His legs are a tad bit longer than Robb’s and, if he isn’t careful, he’s going to have his shoes soaked.

“Didn’t mind,” Robb answers, turning to meet his eyes with a smile. He reaches for Theon’s hand, who hesitantly gives it to him.

It’s not that he’s not into public displays of affection - he doesn’t mind, really. Never did. With Robb, he’d always go over the top, his arm on Robb’s hip, pulling him closer than necessary into his side, his face hidden in the crook of Robb’s neck. If someone was making a face - or directed slurs at them - Theon would only increase the affection, daring the person to go further.

But here - _here_ , on the Islands, it’s different. His heart starts beating, too fast, not in a way that acts as a prelude to much more exciting events, but in a way that he remembers from way back when he was scared of his father or his brother coming home and it’s not a sensation he’d like to relive.

Handholding is a bit better - still guarantees some nasty looks and nastier words, but to a lesser extent and it doesn’t make Theon as nervous, fortunately.

“How was Asha?” Robb asks, his thumb leisurely rubbing circles over Theon ’s hand. That’s - that’s what makes Theon feel the worst, he thinks - Robb’s normalcy over this whole thing. It’s as if they’re back in their flat in Winterfell, as if they’re not on the Island where Theon is consumed with these dark thoughts and darker memories and as if everything’s okay.

“You can go back to Winterfell, you know,” Theon says instead of answering, and stares at the black sea expending in front of him instead of meeting Robb’s eyes. He can feel the questions burning into his skin and tries not to wince. “You don’t have to - you can go home, if you want.”

“Theon,” Robb starts, softly, and Theon’s scared that if he looks at him, he’ll see pity in Robb’s eyes. He doesn’t want pity, doesn’t need pity; he’s had enough of it in his life as it is. He pictures Asha’s eyes from earlier that morning, pity so thick in them he couldn’t breathe. “I promised you I’d come here - and stay here - with you, and I’d meant it.”

Theon bites back the bitter _I don’t want you here if you feel this is an obligation_ because he knows that’s not what Robb means, because Robb, in contrast to him, is genuine in all he does. He’s good, patient, kind - _too_ kind for his own good, sometimes - and Theon guesses they both know that Theon doesn’t deserve him in the slightest.

And yet - _yet_ here he is, with Robb by his side, holding his hand and giving him all the space he needs.

“Okay,” Theon says, his voice so quiet it’s a miracle that Robb hears, but he does, he _does_ , and squeezes his hand in response.

They stay at the docks til nightfall; watch the sunset, too, a mesmerizing mixture of reds and blues and yellows that Theon would kill to paint back home, would set up his easel and grab a canvas and just paint, trying to capture the look the best he can in a short time. But these are the Iron Islands and he doubts he can even buy paint around here.

“We should be getting back to the hotel,” Robb says, although he doesn’t seem to plan on moving anytime soon, not with his head on Theon’s shoulder and his hand ghosting at his hip. Full disclosure, Theon doesn’t feel like moving, either; it feels nice, sitting like this, and he’s almost able to forget that they’re here. If he closes his eyes, he can imagine they’re at the warm beaches of Braavos until the wind picks up and blows the image away. “It’s getting late.”

Theon doesn’t answer - doesn’t feel the need to, as he hides his face in Robb’s curls.

They end up in the hotel room two hours later and in bed after more or less thirty minutes; Robb dozes off quickly, as he always has, but Theon finds himself unable to sleep once more. He can’t stop thinking about the events in the next few hours, ones that make his head pound and his hand shake.

Before he can think better of it, he finds himself up on the cliffs.

The cliffs, which, as always, are deserted and the only sound nearby is of the waves, working against the rocks, and hints of a storm brewing in the skies. It’s - it’s something he’s missed, really, ever since he was taken away from the Islands. Winterfell didn’t have tall cliffs or water surrounding it or abusive fathers or homophobic brothers.

But Winterfell did have Robb, and - and.

His phone buzzes and he thinks it’s Robb - remembers he didn’t leave him a note, just marched right out of the hotel room - but it’s Asha. _Watch out for these guys tomorrow_ , she writes and he opens the message to find a list of family members - the ones showing up - with certain ones singled out. He figures it’s her way of apologizing - crooked and improper, but at least it’s something.

He texts back _thanks_ and tucks away his phone, before fishing it out again. He toys around with what to write, what not to write, before he decides not to write anything. He’s a Greyjoy, and Greyjoys are known to keep everything bottled inside them - or maybe that’s just Theon.

But he collects his anger and his grief and his happiness and his love and stores it away in little jars somewhere deep inside him and then forgets about them and never deals with anything. It’s something that’s been ingrained so deep inside him that he does it without a second thought and more often than not, Robb has to coax him out of doing so.

He moves closer to the edge, crouching so he can touch the rocks, and, then, experimentally, lifts one up and throws it into the sea. He watches its fall - too slow and too fast all at once, spinning on its axis and catching the moon’s light once or twice before it hits the water with a disappointing _plunk_ and there’s that.

He sends another rock down, thinking of his father, then another, thinking of his brothers, and then another, for good riddance, thinking of all the ways they wronged him. He doesn’t realize he’s crying until he has tears streaming down his face and his nose is runny and it doesn’t take long for sobs to wrestle their way out of his body out of his throat out of his mouth and he ends up on his knees with his face in his hands trying hard not to cry because that’s not what he’s been taught and -

\- and the tears come running down anyway and the sobs don’t stop, and, suddenly, his mind is consumed with his mother’s death, which he’s been blocking out ever since he heard about it. Now, that he’s started think about it, he can’t stop; he wonders what would have been different if he hadn’t let her down, if he hadn’t left her here, if he would have come back to her.

“Fuck - fuck, I’m - sorry,” he says, in between sobs, and though he’s never believed in God or the notion of heaven, he hopes she can hear him someway, anyway. He hopes that she knows that he desperately regrets not coming here, that he loved her nonetheless.

He hopes that she loves him.

“I - I should have - “

“ - Theon,” he hears, breathless, and mistakes it for his mother before he realizes that it’s Robb - of course it’s Robb, who embraces him the moment he’s close enough to touch him. Theon lets himself collapse against him, lets the tears flow and focuses on the tangible feeling of Robb’s jacket under his fingers and Robb’s hair and just _Robb_ instead.

His sobs suffocate into hiccups and his eyes run too dry to let any more tears out and Theon feels deflated, angry, spent. The feeling is all too familiar - one that used to arrive after hours of crying into his pillow or after sinking against the locked bathroom door and just letting it all out.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Robb asks, his hand running in patterns over Theon’s back. “You don’t have to now, but - “

“ - later,” Theon manages to choke out.

And, even to his own ears, he sounds sincere.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading !! hope u enjoyed !!


End file.
